Bloody Precious
by Hollyesque
Summary: "Only twenty-three days old and this is already the worst day of his life. We must be absolute shit at this."


If Greg had taken a moment to think back, he probably would've remembered _why_ he hasn't heard from Sherlock or John in over three weeks. He would've remembered how Sherlock was en route to the Yard when he out of nowhere rerouted to Bart's and never showed, how he and John had been bickering just days before that over how to properly assemble the cot that had come in the mail that day, and how John had dropped a comment a few months before that about someone named Josie's scan going well.

As it stands, though, everything escapes his mind but the fact that Sherlock stole a vital piece of evidence—thirteen toes that were sent to some poor sod in the mail, to be exact—and then fallen off the grid for weeks without warning.

That's why he and Donovan come bursting through the door to 221B Baker St at 10:30 p.m., Greg loudly announcing their entrance with an exuberant, "ALRIGHT, GENTS, EXPLAIN YOURSELVES!"

The second the words have left his mouth he knows he's fucked up. Still, there's something comical in the way both Sherlock and John's eyes go saucer-wide with horror, simultaneously leaping from their chairs with hands outstretched to stop Greg in his tracks, aborted "No, don't—!" still on their lips. It's far too late, though: there's a beat of silence, and then the indignant wail of an awakened infant permeates the flat.

"Oh my god," John says, covering his face with his hands while Sherlock walks towards the sound of the crying as though preparing himself to face the guillotine. John crumbles, actually lays down flat on the floor next to his chair, legs splayed in the picture of pure defeat. Greg would laugh if he didn't feel like a right shit.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and glances at Donovan, who looks as though she's heavily debating whether she should bolt. "Shit, mate, I'm awfully sorry," he starts.

"Forty-five minutes," John's groan is muffle d by his hands, "forty-five minutes to get him down! I was ready to bloody bribe him!"

"Yes, yes, I know," says Sherlock tolerantly as he returns to the living room, lightly bouncing an impossibly tiny human with one giant hand. It's a moment of confusion before Greg realizes that Sherlock's speaking inresponse to the baby's wailing.

"Um," Donovan says timidly, "we can—"

"Don't bother," Sherlock cuts her off as he breezes past them, using the hand not cradling his son to gesture at the couch, indicating they both sit. "If you're here at this hour it means it's important." The baby gives a particularly loud cry just then, and Sherlock replies, "Oh, come now, it's not as bad as all that."

"Really, we could come back," Greg offers even as he and Donovan sink awkwardly onto the couch.

"No use," Sherlock dismisses him, "you're here now. It takes John ages to get him down but this shouldn't take long."

"If you're so bloody good at it, why don't you do it every time?" says John bitterly, dragging himself from the floor and back into his armchair.

"You take far less time than I do to change a nappy, John," Sherlock shoots back, "do you _really_ want to divvy up responsibilities that way?"

Donovan snorts, and then immediately covers her mouth.

John heaves a sigh that Greg thinks should be trademarked for new parents alone. "D'you want me to take him?" he asks wearily, reaching out slightly.

Sherlock shifts the noisy bundle so he can cradle the infant's head and shakes his own, continuing to bounce. "Best not," he says, "you've got a cold coming on and he'll be able to hear it in your lungs; he'll go faster if he just has my heartbeat."

"How could you know I've a cold coming on?!"

"Who _exactly_ do you think you're married to, John?"

"Um," says Donovan, watching the exchange as though at a tennis match, "we—you, ah, you took some...things…"

"Oh, the Meat Cleaver case, right," Sherlock settles into a rocking chair that's placed curiously close to the window and places his son onto his chest. "Give me a minute to settle him and I'll instruct you on where to find the toes. Good lord," he adds, leaning back to study the infant's scrunched up face, "John, I do believe this is the _end_ of the _world."_

John is resting his head against the back of his chair with his eyes closed, but his mouth lifts as he snorts. "He's just crying to cry at this point," the doctor says.

"No, _truly,_ " Sherlock insists with mock sincerity. "Only twenty-three days old and this is already the worst day of his life. We must be absolute shit at this," as though to contradict his words, the baby begins to quiet down.

John grins again. "Must be," he agrees placidly.

Greg takes in the whole scene—low lighting, John fighting sleep on his armchair, Sherlock rocking their son to sleep like it's the most normal thing in the world—and the words "on the contrary" bubble to his tongue.

A minute or two later, when the wails have dwindled to whines and then to the occasional whimper, and finally tapered off altogether, Sherlock quietly dictates where in the fridge the stolen toes have been stored. Turns out they're in the very bottom drawer, tucked in the back corner, in a _labeled_ bag, of all things. Greg wonders if he should be surprised that they weren't simply thrown in there to sit next to the baby formula, but upon glancing again at Sherlock sitting in the rocking chair he decides that he's really not.

"No room for the rocker in your room?" Greg asks mid-search.

"There is," John supplies, still leaning back in his chair, "we just bought another one once we figured out that the sound of cars going by puts him out."

Greg grins at that. "Likes the sound of London, eh?" he notes, handing Donovan the bag and making his way back to the sitting room. "Sound like anyone you know?"

John chuckles softly, and even Sherlock gives a quiet "Hmm," in appreciation.

"So, this is him then?" Greg asks, hovering a bit to peer at the sleeping bundle on Sherlock's chest. "This is Hamish?"

"No," comes John's indignant voice, "that is _not_ his fucking name—"

"We're unfortunately still fighting over the name," Sherlock notes, grinning a bit.

"I am _not_ calling my son fucking _Hamish,_ I won't do that to a kid—"

"Well," Greg says, rocking on his feet a bit, "he's ah…he's quite small, isn't he?"

Sherlock dips his chin to gaze into the infant's face, pressing a butterfly-soft kiss to his downy forehead.

"Exquisitely," he murmurs, so lost on his son that Greg doubts he even hears them leave the flat.

* * *

A week later, John updates his blog. The new entry doesn't say a word; merely contains one picture: Sherlock Holmes, absolutely knocked on his couch, equally passed-out baby on his chest.

Greg doesn't print out the photo and pin it to the bulletin in his office. When Anderson stops in to discuss a case, he absolutely doesn't stare at it for a few moments before saying, "That's…that's bloody precious, that is."

A month or so later, when the baby (William Hamish, after both of his dads, apparently) begins to sleep through the night and his parents gain back some sense of coherency, Sherlock does not come back to an office full of people slapping him on the back in congratulations, pressing gifts into his hands, cooing over his son, and he most decidedly does not crack his face into the fullest, dopiest, most helpless grin Greg has ever seen.

And when Greg thinks about that twenty-something-year-old drug addict who he kicked off his crime scenes for showing up high and then looks at this man—this exhausted, in love, deliriously happy man…no, he doesn't fucking cry, you git, there's something in his eye, alright?

* * *

 **Hello all!**

 **So i work with kids and of course come across the occasional screaming baby, and my first reaction is to respond directly t the kid (saying things like "oh, god, this is the worst day ever," and "we're not having a good time at all, are we?") so I thought it would be a bit funny to have Sherlock take his crying baby in stride that way.**

 **I also can't bring myself to fully accept the headcanon that John would name his kid Hamish because let's be real: he despises that name with a burning passion and would never inflict in upon his child. Sherlock doesn't seem to like his first name either, though, so there's my solution.**

 **Sorry about your teeth y'all. Hopefully I gave a few of you a cavity or two.**

 **Reviews are immensely appreciated**

 **-Hollyesque**


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